Purge
by Lalis
Summary: "I don't know if I'll forgive you. Even after all of it. Even ever." But there was only one way he could try, and if it meant having all he'd put his victims through done to him by the person he loved the most, then he'd do it. If not to earn back her love, her touch, her affection - then at least her presence. Rated M for violence in later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

It all began about six months after Gabriel and his family ran away from the Murder House, as they'd begun to refer to it like more of an affectionate nickname than the omen it used to be.

To say Tate was going crazy (crazier, really, than his usual condition) was a giant understatement. Ever since Violet's goodbye, he'd been good on his promise of not appearing anymore. He hadn't. Granted, he'd watched her on a few occasions, fewer and further between as time went by. But not a word was uttered, not an object was moved, and as much as he knew it was the best thing to do, it was corroding him. Even more so when the new family moved in, and not even the Harmons had the heart to scare them away.

The Littman family was comprised of a recently widowed father and his four children, the oldest of whom was eleven and in a wheelchair. Even Moira didn't bother to show herself as anything other than an old woman to the dad. Even the twins didn't play pranks. These were five people who were lost, desperate for a way out, not unlike anyone else who already inhabited that house. But maybe they could get what they wanted. They deserved their fair chance.

Violet had taken a liking to the family, especially the younger child - Holly Littman, three years old, learning to read and write, and doing some pretty amazing progress already. Pretending to be a neighbor, the blonde would spend hours playing with her when the father was away at work, and - mind you - she'd tell stories.

Tate thinks it really began with the stories.

Violet was never one for fairytales, and even if she were, the younger girl had heard about Cinderella and Snow White and Peter Pan a thousand times. No, these stories were better. The first time Holly sat on Violet's lap after lunch for a brand new tale, Tate had walked into the kitchen completely by accident, but he didn't dare to leave. Curiosity took the best of him, and to this day he can't see that as a mistake.

"Once upon a time, there was a beautiful girl who was in college. She was a real good student, like you. All straight A's. But there was a problem..." The girl took a dramatic pause, and Holly's eyes widened with interest. "She fell in love. She fell in love with her teacher!"

Tate recognized the story almost immediately, and for the first time since she'd ordered him to leave, he smiled. It was Hayden. Violet was actually making Hayden's life into a story one can tell a child - and, amazingly, it had a happy ending. Tate was caught by the tale, almost as much as Holly was. When the teenager's sweet voice led them both to the part about how Hayden realized her teacher was happy, and soon found someone much better suited for her, there was a grin on the boy's face.

If she had told Hayden's story, surely there'd be others. Moira. Lawrence. Nora. Beau. Maybe even her own. Maybe... Maybe his.

How would she paint him? How would she make his story a happy one, one worth telling? Was he even worth remembering, after all?

From that day on, story time became his solace. Sometimes it was more than three weeks before the next story came, sometimes there were two on the same day. Tate would monitor naptimes - the tales were more commonly told before those - and generally hang around wherever the two girls were together, while the three older children were away at school. Violet had talked to them on a few occasions, but it was Holly she had a connection with, and Tate suspected she wouldn't tell those stories to anyone but her.

He made sure to make himself as scarce as possible, even if he was invisible to his deceased beloved. Being close was breaking a promise. Being close was hurting her again. Most of the time, he settled for being in the adjacent room; close enough to hear it if a story were to come up, not close enough for anything else. Any other ghost in the room didn't seem to mind as long as he kept quiet.

It was a comforting routine. In a way, he was getting his fix. Seeing her was enough. Listening was enough. He didn't need closeness, or even an acknowledgement of his presence. It was enough, and if he went too long without it, he'd start to get antsy.

Violet would never offer a story - it was the little brunette who demanded them. When Tate heard those words, his nearly immediate reaction was to sit down wherever was available; the floor, the corner of the bed, a nearby chair or counter. It didn't matter. It mattered that Violet would pick up the rapidly growing girl, set her down on her lap, and begin to give a happy alternate life to another member of the strange little family they'd made for themselves.

She'd get emotional sometimes. The story of her father was full of pauses with no dramatic content at all, instrad filled with very suspicious swallows and the quietest sniffles she could manage as she gave him a beautiful life with his perfect family in a completely normal suburban house. Vivien's tale began to be told once, but morphed into a slightly adapted version of Legally Blonde, and Holly was too young to have seen the movie or care too much. It worked, anyway, and the suffering redhead became a bubbly lawyer before Violet could let the tears in her eyes fall over.

In those occasions, Tate's impulse to reach out - touch, hold, caress her, anything - was almost overwhelming. Almost. He breathed hard and fast and paced around the room and hovered over the two huddled orphans, but didn't touch them. Not the child, not the teenager. He'd made a promise, one that he was already breaking anyway. No need to break more. No need to break her more.

Month after month, Tate listened intently as everyone got their happy ending, if only in the imagination of the two unlikely companions. Moira became an actress, starring the most successful one-woman show in town, where she'd play both a grandma and her granddaughter. The twins grew up to work with the Weasley twins in their prank shop, and Tate was glad that Holly needed an explanation about that part, because so did he. Even the exterminator who had been hired to get rid of the bugs - ironically, the ones crawling all over Violet's own dead body - got his story, this time being transported into a video game to annihilate the Big Evil Bug of Doom.

The boy was keeping track, even making a list. He couldn't help but become more and more restless as the names were crossed out, and the girl began to run out of people to save in fiction; only two of the names remained now.

After nonchalantly refusing once or twice, Violet finally gave in and sat down with Holly to tell a pretty version of her own life - Tate was curled up in a corner of the room when she reached the part where the "sad little girl with the dark inside her" took the "magic pills that would make her disappear". In the story, the pills made the dark disappear instead, and the girl was happy. She lived to be a hundred, with tiny grandma glasses over the tip of her nose.

Tate was sobbing by the end. That's what should have happened. If she'd never met him, she wouldn't have taken the pills. Maybe she'd be happy now. Maybe he'd watch her grow up and grow old and be a hundred. Instead, she was stuck in a murder house, and she was sad forever.

Through the thick curtain of tears in his eyes, the boy saw Violet excuse herself under the pretense of having to pee really bad, but he didn't think even Holly was fooled. And so he pressed his ear up against the bathroom door, and unbeknownst to her, they cried together.

After that, there was only one story left untold.

It came almost a month later, five days before Christmas, according to the Littman's countdown - a green felt rectangle with red velcro numbers and "days til X-mas" painted in the father's clumsy handwriting. That day, after having lunch and a good shower, Holly attached the big red number five above the words, then turned to her babysitter with an expectant smile.

"Violet… I want."

"You want what?" The blonde asked teasingly, pretending she didn't know. She did, of course. And Tate did, too. The moment he heard the youngest Littman's sing-song voice hinting at the words, he practically jumped to his feet, and he was sitting across from the pair before they even sat down properly.

It was a few minutes before Violet had Holly on her lap, sitting on the living room couch, and Tate could swear his heart had never thumped this hard, even when he was alive.

"Alright. Once upon a time, there was a crazy, evil queen. She had three children, but she was mean to them. Very, very mean."

Tate arched an eyebrow. This wasn't what he'd been expecting. Although, maybe…

"One of her children was a lovely princess, the other was a very sweet prince, but they were both forbidden from leaving the castle. The other prince was allowed to go out, but he… He got the evil from his mom."

Violet's voice faltered a bit at this, and Tate's chest began to feel tighter. Granted, it was nothing new. It was nothing new, but it hurt.

It hurt more when she went on, in almost excruciating detail, about how the prince went on to commit all kinds of atrocities. The villagers, one by one, killed with his sword. The house of a working man, set on fire. A damsel in distress, robbed instead of rescued. Every bad deed of his, every murder, rape, theft, everything read back to him like a death sentence, spoken in a language a child could understand.

What was worse about the story wasn't even the tale itself. Tate knew all of it, he'd relived it all so many times, he was almost immune to the pain by now. The worst about it was the crystal-clear pain in the storyteller's voice, the sorrow she felt at having no choice but to depict him as the biggest evil. He was. Who could blame her? Who could even say she was wrong?

And yet she seemed on the verge of tears by the time a second character in the story was introduced – a peasant girl, in her words, "dumber than a sleepy elephant". The peasant girl who fell in love with the evil prince when he made her believe he was just another boy. The stupid peasant girl who still loved him after she discovered the truth.

It was a competition now – there was no telling whose undead cheeks were more thoroughly covered in tears. Holly didn't seem to find it strange; she, too, cried a lot when she told sad stories. All she did was place her pudgy little hand on Violet's cheek, and the action brought a tiny, reluctant smile to the girl's face, even as some more tears rolled down onto the tiny fingers.

"I'm okay. It's just a sad story, alright? It's sad because… Because the peasant girl knew what was right. And she couldn't be with someone who was evil, could she?"

Violet's voice was choked, and by that time, Tate's body was trembling slightly as he held his knees to his chest. _Fuck._

"No! He'd be evil to her!"

"Exactly. T-that's why she told him to go away. She told him to go away so hard, he stopped bothering the kingdom."

Holly's chubby arms wrapped around the blonde's neck, the little face resting on the pale, skinny shoulder.

"Did the peasant girl love the evil prince forever?"

"Forever and ever."

"And was she sad?"

"Forever and ever…"

And that's when it happened.

He'd been holding it in so well up until now. Even when he was sobbing so hard he could barely breathe, Tate had been able to hide perfectly. Until now.

Now Violet looked over the child's shoulder and saw nothing…

But she heard a whimper.

It didn't really take a genius to figure out the rest.

"Holly, why don't we get you down for your nap?" Violet whispered hurriedly, and the tiny one did nothing but agree. Still holding onto her guardian's neck, she let herself be carried to bed, and it was a matter of minutes until Tate heard the three words that made him break down all over again.

"You still here?"

So of course he appeared. Huddled on the floor, crying too hard to form proper sentences, but he was there. And she sat beside him – not touching, but near him, enough to stretch out a hand and touch his blond locks with hesitant fingers.

"J-just today. P-pl-please…"

"Here..."

And before he knew it, she'd guided his head down to rest on her thigh, and her hand was stroking his hair soothingly, and they were both crying like small children, bodies shaking at the same rhythm.

It had been almost a half hour when Violet put an end to it. Forcing herself to swallow back her tears – it seemed like it would have gone on forever if they both had let it – she pulled away only to lift him up, and rest his face on her shoulder. Tate went limp in the girl's arms; that touch, those hands – just being around her by her own choice… It felt like the redemption he needed. The salvation he'd been begging for. He knew it was temporary, maybe for just a few more minutes, but it was enough; it was more than he deserved already.

"We have until Holly wakes up. Then I'm telling you to go away and you're not coming back. Okay?"

Her voice was sweet, in spite of everything. It only made him cling tighter, wanting to enjoy it more fully – the light fingertips trailing on his back, the other arm firmly wrapped around his waist, the smell of her hair, all the clichés that seemed to make sense at once.

"Relax. Nobody's leaving until she wakes up. Talk to me." She whispered, eyes closed tight as she nestled against him.

It took him a moment to catch a steady enough breath, but he spoke.

"I… I think I can… I think I can c-come up with a p-plan."

"What do you mean? A plan for what?"

"For m-me. For us, actually."

He pulled away, hands taking both of hers as his lips curved into a smile. He couldn't believe it – the plan was there all along! He hadn't seen it, but it was there. It'd be hell, but it'd be for the best, and if there was someone who needed to pay Hell a visit, his name was Tate Langdon.

"Okay, tell me."

"I've killed… Thirty-two people total. And there's that thing I did to your mom." He brushed his tears away, eyes never leaving hers, even as the smaller pair turned to stone again. _Probably not the best line to open with, moron._

"Just hear me out, Vi. There's a point to it. What if… Well, what if I pay for it? All of it?"

"How?"

"I'll tell you what I did. How I did it. I remember now, your dad has been helping me and- and I remember every bit of it. I'll tell you, and you can do it to me. I'm dead anyway, so why not? Or you can have someone else do it, if you feel like that'd be better. Thirty-two murders and a rape, Vi. That's a lot of shit to pay for. It's more than time already."

There was a deranged, almost eager edge to his voice, and the truth is, he was. He needed it.

"It's not just the victims." She replied coldly, eyes narrowing. "It's their families. It's their futures. It's everything. Are you prepared to pay for that, too?"

"Yes."

Silence. Violet's brow was furrowed, head tilted to the side, her expression as confused as if he were a creature from another planet.

And then she rose to her feet, yanking her hands out of his like they were on fire, and they might as well have been; the flames rapidly spreading to her heart.

"Are you seriously telling me you want to be fucking tortured to make up for what you did?"

Down on the floor, eyes brimming with tears again, Tate could do nothing but shrug.

"Yeah."

"I don't know if I'll forgive you. Even after all of it. Even ever."

"I know."

"You're crazy. You're a psycho."

"Preaching to the choir."

"And if I say yes to this, there's no backing out for you, ever."

He nodded solemnly, eyes wide and eager for her veredict.

"Tomorrow."

**_A/N: _**_Hey! Thank you for reading. This was an idea that popped into my head at school, and it'll be sad. It'll be angsty. It'll be sadistic. Read at your own discretion :) Also, it'll be short. I'm thinking somewhere in the neighborhood of five chapters, maybe a little more, maybe a little less. But please, please let me know what you think! I'll try to update soon enough. And for the readers of Stay, don't worry. I'm working on that, too. Just… A little more slowly._


	2. Chapter 2

The instructions had been clear. _Meet me up in the attic after everyone leaves. _The Littmans were going away for the afternoon, leaving plenty of time for Violet and Tate to make as much noise as they wanted to. Right now, she was pacing around the attic, fists clenched as she grumbled.

"This is insane. God damn it, it's insane!"

"Well, he deserves it. He said so himself." Chad scoffed from his spot on the dusty floor, a smirk on his lips. "And you can call it off anytime, sweetie. I don't see you calling it off."

The truth is that, as much as it sickened her, Violet wanted him to suffer. It was true, he deserved it. He had done exactly that to someone else. But… It was _Tate._ The man she was in love with. The one she lost her virginity to, _voluntarily_. Eagerly. The boy she'd thought of as an angel for the first few days after they'd met.

Now… Any resemblance of the angel she used to admire was covered in blood. Blood and dirt. It disgusted her to think of all the things he'd done, to think she'd ever let those same hands touch her. The hands that had held a man's head underwater until he died, then snapped his neck, had also held onto her hips with such tenderness and love that – _Violet, shut the fuck up. For fuck's sake. _Feeling sick to her stomach, the girl stopped pacing and leaned against the wall, her eyes closed.

Maybe his plan was a good idea. Maybe it was right to purge him of his deeds. Every one of them. After all, there was no Hell for them – there was only eternity in that damned house; if there was no Hell, someone would have to take matters into their own hands.

Her resolve faltered when Tate appeared at the door, if only for a brief moment. The few seconds it took her to put on the brave face were more than enough to see the dirt again. The filthy fallen angel – _hey, _she thought, _Satan was one too. _Now that she had finally been able to put it into words in her head, looking at him was becoming unbearable; not because of any guilt she might have felt, but because even the air he touched seemed to be contaminated. Sin and tragedy and heartbreak and murder and sadness, so much sadness, it sucked in the energy around him like a black hole.

But she couldn't… Well, she couldn't do it herself. Not yet. Not with her own hands. And so as soon as he entered, all she did was all she could do.

She sat down.

She crossed her arms.

And Tate just looked at the bucket full of water, dropped to his knees before it, and locked eyes with the blonde across the room.

"Now, Tate… Tell me what you did to deserve this." She managed to keep her voice from shaking, but it was probably a good idea not to push her luck much further.

When the boy replied, his eyes weren't humble. They were trying to be, but so many concrete walls had been put up, it was like the attempt wasn't even legitimate.

"I drowned Chad in a bucket of water and broke his neck."

"Leaving me here in this house forever with a man who doesn't love me back. Which, if you think about it, is actually really ironic." The dark-haired man remarked bitterly, eyes narrow and a smirk full of vengeful anticipation as he knelt beside Tate.

A tan hand gripped the blond locks firmly, waiting for the final command.

It came in the form of a hesitant nod.

And so it began.

What amazed Violet was that he didn't fidget once. Even when his natural body reaction would have been to try and come back for air, he did nothing more than jerk up a few times with his torso. No squirming. Not a single voluntary movement, not one subtle attempt to get out, until his body went limp and Chad pulled him back up.

Her eyes welled up again. _Damn it, Harmon, are you a water fountain now? _But seeing Tate so _dead_ – and the fact that he was a ghost was of little relevance right now – hit the panic trigger in Violet's chest, and she was seconds away from screaming when the brown eyes shot open again.

Then it hit her.

They were red, sure.

But they were also… Pleading. Desperate like she'd never seen before. Not desperate for her forgiveness, not for attention, not really _for _anything. They were desperate _from _his suffering. _From _understanding just what he had put Chad through – mind you, that was just one person. And so she knew, she knew from the bottom of her heart, that his plan was right, if not for him, then for the strange pleasure it brought her.

"Again."

* * *

They went again and again that day. Tate gasped and sputtered and held his breath until he died, and came back, and died, and came back, over and over until he could barely remember how to breathe. Until Chad pulled his hand away, and even he was too exhausted to be satisfied. It wasn't until Chad left the room that Violet nodded faintly to the blond boy, her face stained with tears, but her heart oddly lighter.

Still on his knees, seemingly in no condition to stand up just yet, he crawled his way over to the girl, but no words were spoken. She didn't know what to think – it had been at the same time a liberation and a nightmare. Seeing him suffer at her hands, even indirectly, made Violet's chest hurt. However…

That look in his eyes. He understood now. The reality, the size of his own monstrosity had just begun to dawn on him, and she could see it so clearly; the walls were breaking. By the time they'd gotten every single one of them down, it'd be like a hurricane had blown him away.

Only then, if ever, could she contemplate forgiving him. When he had comprehended the true dimension of his atrocities, that's when he could truly know what he was sorry for. And when she had inflicted enough suffering upon him, maybe she could see him as something other than a monster. Something other than that blood-stained, filthy mess of an angel in disgrace.

Violet wondered if there'd be any of him left when they were through. When he had understood exactly what he'd done to each and every person he'd caused harm to, when he'd felt it all in his own everlasting, ever-healing, but still very humanly sensitive flesh. Would he go mad? Would the Tate she loved still be in there somewhere, or would she discover that what she truly loved was his insanity itself?

The boy's mouth opened, his strength very slowly returning. Before he could form any words, Violet silenced him with a finger placed to her own lips.

"No talking. You did good today. Now you have to go. I'll call you again in a few days so we can get on with this."

With a shaky nod and a deep breath, he disappeared, leaving Violet just as empty as she had been since their goodbye.

* * *

The following sessions turned out to be just as brutal as the first, if not more. The more Violet watched her favorite monster get purged of his deeds, the more honestly exhilarated she felt. And he came on his own, never hesitating for a second, let alone disobeying.

Lawrence was avenged, pale skin turned black and leathery, the whole basement smelling of burnt flesh and regret and sorrow. Patrick, too, with the fireplace poker drawing more and more blood every time it went in and out of the boy, his shrieks becoming progressively louder and more pitiful with it. A woman he had quite literally stabbed on the back, in another occasion involving drugs, could now rest in a little more piece; the attic floor covered in quickly disappearing ghost blood and Tate entirely still on the floor, not a square inch of skin unmarked.

Every wound, every burn, everything would heal within a few hours, sometimes even minutes, but that didn't make Violet panic any less until she saw it for herself. _He started it_, she kept reminding the stupid part of her brain that still wanted to stop. _He did all of this to innocent people. He has it coming. He needs it. _He knew he needed it, too; what else could his perfect obedience be a sign of?

To be completely honest, Violet was shocked, in a good way – if nothing else, by his perseverance. Throughout the repeated assaults to every part of his body, in every conceivable way, Tate was surprisingly solemn. As silent as he could bring himself to be, until the pain became too much; and even then, not a word would escape. Sobbing, yes. Whimpers, screams, grunts – Violet didn't mind the screaming as much as she did the pitiful, broken wail the boy sometimes let out when she'd pronounce that dreaded little word. _"Again"._

At times, she did it just to shut him up. Any sound he'd make was better than this. Others, she'd make the last round mercifully short. In any case, while he lay limp on the floor, waiting breathlessly for everything to heal, she'd always sit by him and watch… And his quiet little whimpers would sometimes make her want to reach out and offer some comfort. Maybe a short hug or a kiss. Maybe play with his hair. Something small.

She never did, though. At least, not in that way. The first few times, all she gave him was enough time to recover – maybe an hour or two, no more – and even that was for her own peace of mind more than to the boy's comfort. He was paying, and it was good, but he was still dirty. Still disgusting. She loved him, she loved him more than words could ever say, but it didn't stop her from looking at the bloody, broken mess on the floor and only seeing malice. Malice and sin and lives taken away. She couldn't bring herself to touch that. He didn't deserve it, not yet.

Whether it was hours or minutes later, when Tate's pale skin was back to its original state – or almost so, she would always do the same routine. Violet would scoot closer to the boy, take a deep breath, and just look straight into his eyes. It was an assessment, and what she found pleased her greatly; with every time she purged him of one more crime, another wall was taken down. The brown eyes were soon becoming completely lost, more and more desperate as the reality of each misdemeanor dawned on him. He would hold her gaze like it was his only grasp on sanity, and none of them really doubted it.

And then a question would leave his lips. The only exchange of words they would have after each purging was over.

"Was I good?"

"Do you think you were?"

No matter the answer, she'd agree. That part, she'd admit, was just to mess with him a little bit.

That's how it went down until the seventeenth session.

To say it had been intense was a gross understatement. When Violet announced it to be over, Tate's body collapsed to the floor like a crash test dummy, blood oozing from every possible surface. The noises that escaped him – pathetic, distressed howls still echoing through the basement long after the torture had ceased, were getting to Violet's heart in a much deeper way than usual. He always took it willingly, but the scene before her was becoming unbearable, and even in her most vengeful state, Violet wouldn't have had it in her to make him leave just so she didn't have to watch. _Don't be a hypocrite, Harmon. Face it._

It took Violet ten minutes of wet cheeks and a shaky chest to realize she was crying almost as much as the broken man on the floor.

But she couldn't comfort him. Not even with a kiss. Tenderness was dangerous to them, perhaps even more so than violence; tenderness meant love, and love could mean forgiveness – forgiveness that he didn't deserve and she wasn't ready to give.

There was another option, though. An idea that came into her mind as the cries dwindled and the wounds began to heal. Such a perfect compromise, she didn't know how she hadn't thought of it sooner.

"Tate?"

"Hm?" His handsome face turned to her in confusion, eyes wide and slightly unfocused.

"Let me know when it stops hurting too much. I mean, on your body."

"Why?"

"Because I wanna fuck."

If the atmosphere in the basement hadn't been so heavy, the double-take Tate did when he heard the girl could have been reason for a good laugh. Back when he wasn't nearly irreparably tainted in her view, she'd call him a dork and kiss him, but now all that happened when the boy turned on his side with his mouth agape was a tiny, humorless chuckle from Violet.

"You… You wanna have sex again?"

"I didn't say sex, I said fuck. Sex has kissing and sweet stuff in it. I don't want that. I want your dick."

"Why?"

Tate seemed even more confused, which only made the girl shrug.

"Because you're really good at this stuff. And I haven't gotten any in almost two years. Don't you want to?"

Maybe that was true, too, but it wasn't the reason why she'd had the idea in the first place. Fucking – not sex, _fucking – _was the perfect way to compromise the gnawing need to comfort him and the knowledge of how very fucked up that was. A way to touch without the tenderness, without the love. If there was one possible way, that was it.

"Give me two minutes and I'm good."

"This isn't supposed to hurt, Tate, take your time. I'm not going anywhere." She assured him, eyes on his. Yet another successful session. It was amazing how much darker they looked now. Liquid, almost. Beautiful. She wondered how much better it could possibly get… Perhaps, maybe, good enough to forgive? Good enough to welcome back… Maybe even to love without any overwhelming guilt?

Time would tell.

For now, all she knew was that he still looked as goddamned handsome as ever when he pulled his bloodstained shirt off, and it still felt as thrilling as it used to when she straddled him on the floor.

Clothes came off in a matter of seconds. There was no hesitation, no small talk; this was not about reconciliation, after all. No, it _needed _to be as rough as it could, and for what it's worth, Tate understood; he understood at the first harsh bite to his bottom lip when he attempted a kiss. From then it was almost a competition. It was his hands on her hips, tight enough to bruise, and her teeth closing around his nipple. Fingers slipping inside at a frantic pace, purple marks distributed all over pale skin, hair being pulled and moans filling the basement as the two moved together. It was Violet pushing him off of her as soon as she could regain her breath, and with the faint whisper she could manage, making him go away for the longest time since they started his purging. Before looking in his eyes. Before realizing how much of an even bigger mess she had just gotten herself into.


	3. Chapter 3

The next time Violet saw Tate, months later, it wasn't in the basement. It was actually in the last place she'd ever expect him to be. As she walked through the house after a late-night game of chess with Patrick in the living room, Violet heard a worryingly familiar voice coming from his old bedroom. Her old bedroom. The bedroom that was now shared by the two Littman girls, Holly and Ginger.

"Did your Daddy teach you to pray?"

Standing by the doorway in a mixture of anxiety and curiosity – both worried for her tiny friend and just secretly, stupidly happy to see him again – she peeked in with interest, watching in absolute silence.

"Does it work?"

"It works for a lot of people I know. You could give it a try."

"How?"

Tate and Holly were together at the side of the little girl's bed, both in the same position – on their knees, each pair of hands linked together on the mattress; Holly's eyes were closed tight, her expression serious and tear tracks visible on her chubby cheeks.

"What do we do now?" She asked quietly.

"You just talk to her. Tell her anything you want."

"You first."

_What in the name of all fucks are they doing? Is- oh, wow. Is Tate really praying with her? Why? What even- okay, I have to talk to him after this is done. So many fucking questions._

"But I don't know her. I can talk to my girlfriend, is that okay?"

_Oh my. _Violet couldn't help but come a little closer, interest peaking.

"Your girlfriend is an angel too?" Holly turned to him with a suspicious expression, sniffling. "Was she sick like my mommy?"

"In a way, yeah. Now, remember… They can't answer us, but they're listening. You with me?"

The little girl nodded solemnly, and was met with a smile. But when Tate turned to give her that smile, he also caught a glimpse of the door… And if there was one ghost thing Violet would probably never be able to master, it was becoming invisible to other dead people. Humans? Piece of cake. Ghosts? Impossible. Which is why she was left with no option but to stare back at him with the dumbfounded expression of a child caught in the act.

"Hey there." His dry chuckle, brief as it was, rendered the blonde unable to leave the room. Sighing softly, she went over to the pair and made herself comfortable on the bed, eyes on him.

"I made a new friend today. Her name is Holly. I think you'd like her." He smiled, and Violet did too. "Anyway… Things down here suck without you, I gotta be honest. The other day I was going through some things and I found those baby pictures. Remember the baby pictures? And I just had to see you. So I visited the place where we met last and just sat there. You wouldn't come. I know you had all sorts of fun there, but you wouldn't come."

_Well, fuck. Tate. Don't lose it in front of the kid. _Biting her lip, she reached out a hand to take his, giving it a soft squeeze. It wasn't for him, it was for Holly. At least that's what Violet would keep telling herself.

The way he immediately trapped her hand between both of his and pressed his face to it, eyes closing so tight it seemed like he was clinging to his only chance of waking up from a nightmare, obviously had nothing to do with it. _Obviously._

"So… All I can say is I miss you. And I love you. And I hope you're happy up there, doing your angel stuff."

After a long moment of silence – each of the three completely immobile, Tate still clutching the blonde's hand as if letting go would bring about a disaster – it was Holly's turn to speak. Her bottom lip was trembling when she began.

"Mommy? Can you hear me?" She spoke in a tiny voice. "Mommy, I miss you. If you're up in Heaven and you're happy, it's okay. I hope Scotty's up there with you. And I hope you have an umbrella because Heaven's in the sky and that's where they keep all the rain."

Without freeing herself from the boy's grasp, Violet reached out her other hand and placed it on the girl's head. Sure, she wouldn't know what she was feeling, but she'd feel something, and if that something made it better, it was enough.

"Mommy, I start school tomorrow. Ginger says it's boring but there's nice people. Are you gonna watch? I hope you watch me. I'm gonna wear the yellow hoodie Daddy bought that was too big. It's good now! I'm big! Daddy says I'm tiny but I'm real big!"

"It's working." Tate whispered, too quietly for the younger girl to notice.

"I know."

"… And I love you and miss you and I'll talk to you tomorrow night. And the night after that. And the night after that!"

With a satisfied smile, Holly turned to the boy beside her and pressed her face to his side. Only then did Tate let one of his hands release Violet's so he could pull Holly into a side embrace.

"Mr Ghost, stay with me?"

The big brown eyes met the smaller pair, and Violet raised a brow at him. Since when did he need her approval? She gave it nonetheless, and in a brief moment Holly was nestled against his broad chest, sleeping soundly with a thumb in her mouth. The blonde couldn't help but find the scene absolutely endearing.

"Now tell me what that was all about."

"She couldn't sleep. Kept crying because she missed her mom." Tate shrugged, his eyes locked almost irreparably on Violet's. "I appeared, she got scared and started to cry harder, then I told her she was dreaming and all she had to do to wake up was tell me to go away. Said I wouldn't hurt her. She believed me, didn't tell me to leave, and that somehow led to the whole prayer deal."

"Why'd you do it?"

"It never worked for me, but a lot of people seem to find comfort in it."

"I mean, why did you come to help her? You're not usually…"

Violet let the sentence trail off on its own. Truthfully, she had no idea what he'd been doing or where he'd been since she sent him away. When they weren't together, he could be anywhere. Doing anything. She wouldn't know – she didn't want to know. Not yet. If she ever forgave him, if she ever saw her angel again beneath the filth and evil, they'd have all eternity to make up for lost time. For now, the more ignorant she remained, the better. The safer.

"Honestly? She's kind of the reason you and I started… You know… Doing the thing we do in the basement or in the attic. She kinda helped you save me. I'm not one to be ungrateful. Well, I am, but not- not anymore. Trying not to be, at least. It's a start, right? Isn't it a start? I mean, I'm trying, Vi. I- I really am. I think."

His breath hitched, pace becoming frantic as he held the child closer for some semblance of reassurance. Heart racing, eyes shutting tight, Violet did all she could do – really, all she knew _how _to do at this point.

"Let's tuck her in and go down there. It's time for another session."

Through the tight knot in his throat, Tate was able to mewl out a "thank you" that Violet was sure would have killed her with a broken heart if she hadn't been dead already.

Only when they got to the basement… She couldn't.

Oh, she tried. Rather, she tried picking someone whose death to avenge. There were still fifteen murders left to choose from – _holy shit, fifteen? _– plenty of which could be reasonably recreated without much noise. But as Violet paced around the basement, whispering things to herself and occasionally stopping to look at him, she knew it was a lost battle.

"Damn it, Tate!"

"What?" The groan startled him, even though he'd been watching her with a fixated stare for almost a half hour now. Back and forth, from corner to corner of the dark room.

"I can't do it like this! Fucking forget it. Tomorrow. We'll do it tomorrow. And- and you stay away from my Holly!"

The old Tate, the one she knew, would have had a reaction more intense than a humorless chortle, but it was all he could manage now, and she didn't dare look in his eyes yet. The beads of dark brown had turned to liquid, in a whirlpool that would suck her in if she wasn't careful.

"Why should I stay away from her?"

"Because you're bad news. You- you do this! You're there looking all human and sweet and _nice _and then we come down here, still with fifteen fucking _murders_ to deal with, and look at me! I can barely stand still. You're too good at this. At- at making people think you're good. But you're a monster, you know that? A fucking heartless monster."

"_Not heartless_."

There it was. Finally, a change in his demeanor, a glimpse back at the Tate she'd fallen in love with. It rose something inside of her, and she didn't know whether it was good or bad – but there was no denying its power.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?" She spun around to find him an inch away from her, lips pursed, eyes piercing as a low groan escaped him.

"I'm not heartless. You gave me a fucking heart, Violet. Don't you dare deny it – maybe you didn't want to, but you gave me a heart, you made me feel things, and it hurts! I have to fucking live with myself every fucking day knowing exactly what I am, and that I'll never be enough for the one person I've ever given one fuck about my whole damn life, and it's not some heroic movie shit, it's because I'm a goddamn monster! But don't you fucking dare call me heartless, 'cause if I were, it'd be one hell of a lot better to sit around this fucking house and maybe forget you ever existed!"

In her entire life, and afterlife so far, Violet hadn't carried anything as heavy and painful as the single moment of silence that followed his outburst. Later she would notice her own cheeks becoming wetter and the catch in his breath, but for that moment, all that existed were his eyes. Red. Brown. Sharp. Wounded. Spiteful. Panicked. So panicked. Violet watched as it outgrew everything else there could possibly be in those deep brown orbs, as it seemed to outgrow Tate himself, overpowering him in an almost pathetic way as it brought him down to the ground with deep, sharp breaths and silent tears rolling down his face.

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. No. That wasn't it. I promise. It wasn't it. I'm sorry. Fuck. I'm so sorry. I didn't. I never. Fuck."

She didn't stay to hear the ends of any of those sentences.

That night, the younger Littman boy – Taylor, seven years old and enough dinosaur paraphernalia to start his own little museum – was taking his nightly pee when he heard the sounds of objects breaking downstairs. Curious, the boy clutched his stuffed velociraptor and sneaked his way down to the basement, only to come back up as fast as he could a minute later.

Taylor would never tell anyone, not even his father, about the scene he witnessed. He hadn't been harmed or even touched – in fact, Taylor wasn't sure he had even been noticed in the basement. But he knew that among the shards of glass and porcelain and so many things he couldn't name, there was a man. And there was blood. And even though the man couldn't see him, curled on the floor with a book pressed to his chest and his eyes squeezed shut, Taylor wouldn't take any chances.


	4. Chapter 4

The Littman house had just become completely empty for the first time in a school day. When David Littman crammed his children into the very stereotypical minivan, aside from the usual Taylor looking out the window in his daydreaming fashion, Austin rambling incessantly about some new manga he'd read, and Ginger dozing off beside her brother's folded wheelchair, there was a new addition to the car: a very nervous Holly, twirling her messy curls and chewing on the strings of the yellow hoodie she'd mentioned the night before.

Invisible to the living family, Violet stood against the door, watching as her protégée went off to school with her three siblings. It was crazy, but she found herself actually missing school – not the environment, the lessons, or even the people, just… Just the idea of being anywhere but the house. Really, when you're doomed to eternity in one single place, it's hard not to be sick of it.

Now that one of her favorite distractions – babysitting Holly – was going to become more and more of a rarity, she predicted an increasingly boring existence in that Godforsaken house.

"Morning." A female voice startled her, making her gasp a little.

"Hayden, it's rude to come up behind people like this."

"And watching little kids without them knowing it is a sign of pedophilia." The taller girl scoffed. "Face it, Harmon. You're getting lonely."

"Not to mention bored. You can only whip Chad's ass at checkers so many times before it starts to get old, you know."

"Go play with your boy toy, then." A soft smirk crept up on her face as she moved to face Violet, her brows raised. "Rumor has it you've got him beaten down pretty good already."

The words bothered her. The intention of this whole process, from the first session, wasn't to hurt him – hurting him was the means to get to the end, to his redemption, maybe to his forgiveness. He couldn't be forgiven if he wasn't sorry, and he couldn't be sorry if he didn't fully comprehend the dimension of what he had done. Although the events from the previous night made the latter seem practically impossible…

"He's not beaten down, believe me." Was Violet's bitter response, to which Hayden grabbed her by the wrist and practically dragged her into the kitchen. The action was met with a very feeble protest, completely ignored by the taller girl as she released the other and started to make the cabinets open.

"I'm pouring us some booze, and you're telling me all about this."

"Look, I'm not really…"

"I don't care. I wanna know. I deserve to know, okay?" A bottle of vodka and two shot glasses flew onto the kitchen counter, and Violet was about to protest, when she stopped herself mid-breath.

_This bitch is a psycho. Guess what. So are all of us. I could use a friend here, and babysitting a four-year-old or having tea with the old lady maid isn't even close to the same. Yes. I'll take it._

With a satisfied smirk, the fairer girl took the shot that was poured for her, and the face she made seemed to go unnoticed.

"He's not beaten down. Says he wishes he'd never met me. He's mad, but he's not even halfway done with."

"Well, do you want him to be?"

Violet arched a brow.

"Want him to what?"

"Do you want him to be done with? I mean, Chad told me why you guys started this shit in the first place. Seems like a fair reason if I've ever seen one. Besides… Let's face it, sweetie. You've got a lot of pent-up anger in there, don't you?"

Long, pale fingers reached out to rest over Violet's heart, the first gentle touch she'd gotten from a grown person in over a year. Aside from a few cursory hugs from her parents and any interaction with Holly – who, let's face it, was four and blissfully clueless – she had made a point of shutting out everything else, to the point where even the soft contact of Hayden's hand on her chest sent a wave of warmth through her heart.

"Violet?"

"You have no idea how much fucking anger."

And it was true. God damn it, it was true – the amount of still undealt with rage she kept inside was growing so quickly, sometimes it seemed almost impossible that it all fit in just one tiny person. The sadness, the hurt, the frustration, all of it would metabolize into anger and build up; the girl was a walking bomb, and she hadn't even realized it until that one soft, undemanding touch. It was the contrast she needed to notice just how close it all was to overflowing.

"There's a way to let it all out, you know." Hayden's tone was sweet, her arm wrapping around the girl's shoulder as the other hand remained securely over her heart. "He deserves it. He literally asked for it. With all of the words. If you don't do it, if you keep everything inside, you'll go crazy… Don't let yourself go crazy, Violet. Please."

And when the blonde felt Hayden's chin resting on her shoulder, she noticed something else. She wasn't receiving advice from someone who had been in her shoes; it was a request – a request from a woman just as lost as her. From a woman who had watched her entire future crumble because of bad decisions, and wasn't that exactly her own story in a nutshell?

Sighing, she returned the embrace, knowing exactly what to do next.

* * *

The sessions returned, but there was nothing about them – nothing but the physical act of making Tate relive his murders through the perspective of his victims – that could be compared to how it was before. Violet hadn't thought much about it, but now it was clear just how wrong her intentions had been at first. Selfish, for the most part.

She had wanted so badly to believe there was still some good in the man she loved – that the evil, the monster, didn't have enough power to overcome the human – that her entire reasoning became his salvation. In all honesty, as much as she tried to disguise it behind some more noble motive, she really had been cleaning him up just for herself. To be able to love him without guilt. A fair request, but it missed the point. The much bigger, crucial point of how he deserved his punishment without any sort of reasoning besides the fact that _he had committed thirty-two murders and a rape._ No more, no less – he needed to be punished. If God had forgotten to give them a proper hell to suffer in, and the opportunity had come knocking on Violet's door, she had to deliver it.

The strange thing was that now that the hope for loving him freely was gone, so was any hesitation she might have had. Any concern about treating him humanely – and oh, it was ironic to even think about compassionately torturing someone, wasn't it? – gone. The liberation that came with it felt fantastic.

"This is no training bullshit, and I'm not a fucking dominatrix. If you want that BDSM shit, you go to Patrick." She had said it to him that same day, just minutes after the interaction in the kitchen. "From now on, I have no pity on your stupid puppy eyes. You don't talk unless I let you. Are we clear?"

His nod – hesitant, and also strangely… Fearful? – was the last of any sort of communication they exchanged until the very last session. And this time, Violet made sure there wasn't even a chance.

In all of their previous sessions, she would give him some time to breathe and regain his full consciousness after each death. A few minutes for the limbs to stop shaking and the blood loss to diminish. Now she didn't mind more deaths in a much shorter spam – as soon as he got his pulse back, eyes barely open, it would begin. The word _again _was uttered more out of habit than for any practical purpose, because now it was her very own hands doing the damage, rarely assisted and never, ever stopped for any reason other than simple physical exhaustion. The more violent the murder had been, the more pleasure she took in repeating it over and over, until his face was unrecognizable, and his body, completely motionless for solid hours on the cold ground.

Violet did not feel even the smallest bit of guilt. She didn't, because he deserved it, and because at the end of each session, her assessment of his eyes would show better and better results; sometimes, the horror of what he had done to mostly innocent people would send him into a state of pure shock. Only now it was even better – Tate's comprehension of his own monstrosity was a side effect, and it seemed as if the beast was being destroyed in every possible way, even if it meant taking down the remaining human that still came with it.

And yes, she was aware it existed. However small, Tate's human side was still there, more raw and beaten and exposed as every session went by. And Violet saw it so clearly – how he'd flinch when she came near, how his legs had begun to shake even as he walked up or down the stairs to the attic or basement, and often an involuntary movement or sound would bring a look of pure panic onto his face, like he had broken an unspeakable oath. Sometimes a word would threaten to escape his lips, then be swallowed back in a choked sob, not really an uncommon occurrence in a room where the most successful meetings were the ones that drew a long current of screams from his lungs.

Violet knew all of it, and she was sorry she couldn't separate the boy from the monster. Then again, if she could, she doubted she would have fallen for him in the first place.

In the meantime, Hayden had made advances at her, purely of a sexual nature. After one or two very awkward tries, Violet realized it really wasn't her deal. She was into men – and what man could she release her sexual frustration with in that house? Who knew her body better than anybody else, and certainly wouldn't refuse it, even after…

After his last death of the day, Tate would have the time his body needed to recover, and then she was on him like a leopard pouncing on its prey.

Even as they became a tangled mess of sweaty bodies on the floor, still rough and violent and without even a whisper of tenderness, she was in command, and it was clear without it ever needing to be spoken. She knew he enjoyed it – he was hard within seconds, grabbing at her hips and legs and breasts and every part of her skin he could get a hold of with harsh, bruising fingers. Still, he did it because she wanted him to. He slipped inside because she needed him there. She put effort into making him come because it turned her on to hear him moan – and as soon as he slid out, panting, still with her bite marks on his shoulder, she'd make him go away with a feeble whisper.

Somehow, even after all of this, the anger wouldn't go away.

The frustration wouldn't diminish.

All of the hurt inside her just kept growing, and growing, to a point where she began to seriously worry about how much more she could take before it made her explode.

Surely enough, it soon would.


	5. Chapter 5

_**A/N**__ : This story is gonna be a little longer than I planned, yay! Maybe around 7-10 chapters? I don't know. Anyway. __**THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS MENTIONS OF RAPE. PROCEED CAREFULLY.**_

* * *

"Thanks again for giving me a hand with the girls, Violet. This used to be their mother's specialty, and I still don't know the first thing about makeup." David Littman chuckled as he looked over at his children, all ready to go trick-or-treating around the neighborhood on the most awaited night of the year.

Violet followed his gaze, and couldn't help but smile. The three younger Littman children had decided to dress up as Spongebob characters; at the end of about an hour, she had managed to help the father get the costumes on and the faces painted to look as close to the cartoon characters as three children could.

Holly was Spongebob. Taylor was Squidward. Ginger was a dolled-up version of Patrick. And Austin was already settled in front of the TV, almost more excited for a few hours alone at home than his siblings were for their night of trick-or-treating with their father.

"It was kind of fun. I like… I like doing this." She shrugged, smiling softly as she watched Ginger spin around in her pink shirt and green flowery shorts, her long brown curls tied in a high ponytail. "I'm pretty!" She'd exclaim, giggling, and it all brought Violet far too vivid flashbacks of another girl who wanted to be pretty for Halloween. She hoped Addie was okay, wherever she was – surely the sweet, albeit nosy, girl who liked to play with the Harmons' dog deserved much better than an eternity in that haunted house.

"Doing anything fun tonight, kiddo?"

"Yeah, I'm going to a club with a friend."

Violet had only agreed on letting Hayden take her to the club for two reasons. One, she had no idea where else to go on the one night a year she could actually leave the house, and roaming the city alone with no place in mind sounded like a humongous waste of her limited time. Two, from the state her mind had been in recently, few things sounded better than getting inebriated and losing herself in loud, repetitive music, maybe even in the arms of a stranger.

After nodding respectfully to David's recommendations – really, the same ones her parents had given her a thousand times; some things don't change even after you die – the blonde excused herself and practically skipped out of the house to meet Hayden, who was already waiting for her in a tight purple dress that made her own slightly mismatched black ensemble seem like a nun's habit. Not that it mattered. When you only get to go out once a year, you focus on the fun, not on how you're dressed.

It was, in fact, the only night when the house was almost completely empty. Everybody had someplace to be, something to do, someone to visit; even Moira took the opportunity to go tend to her own very personal life. Even Tate – whose days and nights in the past several months consisted mostly of dwelling silently in corners of the house, face buried in whatever book he could find just to keep his head busy – had retreated to his favorite spot at the beach, still completely silent as he curled up against himself and listened to the ocean.

Unbeknownst to Austin Littman, whose sole focus was on the scary animes he had found on Netflix and was devouring one after the other, the only people in the house besides him were Beau Langdon and the Montgomery couple, and unless somebody made the basement and the attic wheelchair-accessible, how would he ever know?

When the first trick-or-treaters came, he gave them some of the candy his father had set aside in a bag for that purpose. The second group received theirs with a side of grumpy face, and by the third time someone knocked on the door, Austin was beginning to think it really hadn't been that good an idea to stay home alone in the first place.

Upon opening the door, he found a pair of young men, maybe five or six years older than himself. They didn't seem dunk, but their eyes were… Strange. Overly focused. Austin had learned enough in school and the movies to know alcohol wasn't the only chemical that could mess with a person's mind, and he hated the look of the situation – but the two boys didn't really appear to be looking for trouble. The tallest one, whose pale skin and blue eyes almost made him look like he'd come straight out of a movie, shot Austin a very friendly smile as he leaned against the doorframe.

"Hey there, buddy… Can I use your bathroom? My place is a 30-minute walk from here and I'm about to burst."

Without giving it much thought, Austin shrugged and made way for the pair, shutting the door behind them.

* * *

"Here you go, sweetie."

"Thank you, Mrs Lady With The Funny Hair!" Holly giggled, peeking in her pumpkin-shaped plastic pail and finding it already half full. She'd be taking leftover candy to school for weeks now, and the perspective made her grin even wider.

"Holly!"

"That's okay, Mr Littman. My little boy used to hate my hair too. Said it looked like the old lady in the Sylvester and Tweety cartoon."

Both adults chuckled, the three children far too entertained with their candy to pay much attention to the conversation.

"How old is your little boy now?"

The woman sighed audibly, her gaze dropping to the floor beneath them.

"Should be thirty-two."

"Should be?"

"Timmy died in high school. Shot in the liver by his best- his _only _friend."

Before David could express his condolences, the woman excused herself and closed the door.

* * *

Austin knew he had made a mistake.

When he pointed the taller boy to the bathroom, there was already a nagging feeling in the back of his mind. Even more so when the other – a scrawny Asian boy not much taller than Austin himself – made his way very silently to the kitchen, and he only noticed it when the teenager was already holding a frying pan with a thoughtful look on his face.

_What a weirdo._

At the sound of the flush, the Littman boy turned around to face the blond who came out of the bathroom, a mischievous smirk on his face as he glanced over at his friend, then at the TV.

"Hey, that's Dragonball!"

"You like it?"

The teenager sat unceremoniously on the arm of the couch, apparently forgetting he wasn't at home.

"I used to love it when I was… Uhm, younger. What's your name, kid?"

"Austin."

"I'm Tim. That's my boy John over there."

John, the Asian boy, had let go of the frying pan at what appeared to be a silent command from his friend. _I'm onto you, dude. I watch CSI._

And yet nothing could have prepared him for what happened next.

In a second, Austin was on the floor, his wheelchair knocked over by John. _This has to be a jo—fuck it, even if it is a joke, I'm gonna scream. _But as he opened his mouth to scream, he couldn't get more than a pitiful little mewl out before a rolled-up dish towel was shoved in his mouth, too large to spit out.

As much as he tried to shove the two away, it was useless, and everybody in that living room knew it. His wrists were quickly tied back with what he could only assume was a stupid zip tie, and there he was – completely defenseless on the floor of his own home, his heart thumping so hard he almost didn't hear the next words from the taller boy.

"A tiny hole for a tiny dick, Johnny. As I promised."

* * *

A soft, defeated sigh escaped Tate's lips as he lifted himself off the ground, wondering when exactly he had thought coming to the beach had been a good idea. The salty air, the smell, even the once soothing sound of the ocean now seemed to mock him. A fragment of what he had once been. A battered shell of a boy who once had hoped to become something – anything – other than a high school kid with a big mouth. Now he did nothing, wanted nothing, saw close to nothing; worst of all, thought and felt far too much for his liking.

When you've done as much damage as he had, thinking is never a good thing. Feeling is even worse. The more it sunk in, the weaker he became, to the point where it limited his every move. He was weak. A boy gone wrong.

The beach had Violet all over it now, and he couldn't stay for another minute. Not really seeing a point in going anywhere else – all the bookstores within walking distance were closed; he had no money for a cab, and if there was one thing he could count on his mother for, it was bringing home new reading material. Anything else was pointless, and so he walked back to the house with heavy steps, just in time to see a very familiar face just around the corner.

The face saw him, too, and both the boys smiled.

"Timmy?"

"Tate!"

"How've you been?"

"Oh, you know, dead and stuff." Timmy lifted his shirt to reveal the bullet wound in his abdomen, and Tate was hit by a wave of nausea at the sharp, still new memory. Granted, it wasn't new in age, but he had just recently begun to remember it.

"It's cool, man, really. I have my fun. Here, this is Johnny."

The Asian boy waved shyly from a safe enough distance.

"Johnny lost his virginity tonight." The blue-eyed boy nudged Tate, wagging his brows with a mischievous smile on his face. "I helped."

As he caught up with who used to be his best friend, Tate only grew more confused. He and Timmy hadn't really known each other too well in life; really, all they did together was experiment with drugs and talk about music. But they'd been close, to an extent; hell, it was the closest he'd ever been with anyone until Violet came along. Tate remembered looking at the boy numerous times and seeing a reflection of himself, maybe even a guideline sometimes. Timmy knew better than him. He was better at not getting caught, better at planning their cheating schemes, even better at terrorizing the freshman boys.

Tate wouldn't willingly admit it, but he had sought his friend's approval many times when they were alive. Even now, when the boy brought up the topic of the shooting, he did his best to pretend he was proud – even as his heart seemed to shrink inside him, as he grew more and more disgusted with himself, he pretended to be proud of what he'd done. Deep within, pathetic as it was, he still somehow wanted the admiration of the boy he knew was better than him, always had been, and always would be.

* * *

Austin was certain there was no more hope for him that night.

His jaw had gone numb long ago, the dish towel keeping it stretched painfully and keeping him from making any sound, even if he wanted to. And he had at first – he'd tried to scream, he'd cried so hard he thought he'd pass out from not being able to breathe, but all that came out was a series of muffled whimpers.

Everything else hurt like all hell. His arms and back were rigid, every muscle aching from the position and the tension, the zip tie cutting into his skin. But none of it was worse than the pain in his ass; every last nerve seemed to be on fire, and the more he thought about it, the worse it got – he didn't know which was more intense, the pain or the embarrassment.

Not to mention his father would have to come in and find him like this.

_ And Taylor and Ginger and Holly._

_ Fuck._

And just when he was about to go into yet another mental breakdown – what, maybe the hundredth so far? – he saw another older boy approach him, and heard a loud gasp.

_This isn't Dad._

_ But it's not one of those two either._

The boy had blond hair, longer and more disheveled than Tim's, and his eyes were a dark, endless brown. But as he crouched and inspected him without saying a word, Austin saw his attacker all over again.

"Look." His voice was quiet and subdued, which the Littman boy found to be something of a relief. "My name is Tate. I'm gonna take that thing out of your mouth, but if you make noise that attracts the neighbors, I'll disappear and you'll be alone here, okay?"

It sounded like more of a warning than a threat, and in any case, Austin didn't think he'd have the strength to let out any significant sound. He nodded weakly, and in a second the gag was off, his jaw mercifully free to snap shut.

"You probably don't want to get touched right now." Tate remarked, and just the thought made Austin shiver visibly. "But you need some help taking care of… All that stuff, right?"

That he did. But he needed his dad. But letting his siblings see him like that… The embarrassment brought the tight knot in his throat over the edge, and as he began to cry again, he noticed Tate had disappeared.

_What the…_

The next thing he knew was that his hands were free, and he only had a few seconds to freely move his arms before the older boy was back – not just back, but _appearing out of thin fucking air. _

"What the fuck are you?"

"I could answer, but it'd confuse the hell out of you. Let's just say I'm here to help, alright?"

"Can you help me clean up without touching me?"

Tate nodded.

"I think I can even get you dressed and on the chair. But you'll be floating a lot. Don't be scared."

It was hard not to, but when you're twelve – really, when you're any age – and you've just gone through the most traumatic event in your life, a little supernatural experience isn't the worst thing you'll face.

And so Austin floated his way to the bathroom, and what was left of his clothes was removed without so much as a touch to his skin. He didn't mind it so much; the strange boy with the powers had already seen his bare, bloodied bottom and equally bare front, so to have his pants and shirt off wasn't that big a deal. He'd be in panic later on. When he thought about this moment – and he'd think about it for years to come – Austin would muse over how easy it would have been for Tate to take advantage of him in this state, but not now. Now he was numb, and numb was good.

As the bathtub filled with warm water, Tate picked the softest underwear and pajamas he could find in the drawer the boy indicated, and it wasn't long before Austin was in the tub, wincing at the sharp sting of the water on his injured ass.

"You okay to wash?"

"Yeah, my hands work just fine..."

The soap stung more, but it felt good to be clean. It felt even better to be dry (and even in that state of mind, the novelty of being patted carefully by a floating towel doesn't just go by unappreciated), decently clad in his pajamas, and safely seated in his chair again. And only then – only when the boy was clean and dry and dressed – did Tate ask him the question.

_The _question.

"Who did this to you, kid?"

The growing numbness in his chest was making it hard to even remember what _it _meant. He'd know it later, he'd know it painfully well, but now he just wanted to forget and sleep.

"Austin, come on. Tell me."

"They gave me their names. Just first names."

Tate waited, tapping his foot as he looked down into the boy's eyes.

"Well?"

"One of them was… Tim? Tim. And the other- the one who- who did the- the thing… John. I don't know last names."

At the mention of the names, the blonde's eyes lit up with something Austin couldn't name – but it wasn't just bad, it was _frightening._ And it was just as frightening when he disappeared, not to be seen again that night.

Not to be seen again at all.


End file.
